him on the ranch."

"Dad needs good hands," she said, with her eyes on the gray sage slopes.
Mention of Wilson Moore augmented the aloofness in her. An annoyance
pricked along her veins.

"Before we get any farther I'd like to know something. Has Moore ever
made love to you?"

Columbine felt that prickling augment to a hot, sharp wave of blood. Why
was she at the mercy of strange, quick, unfamiliar sensations? Why did
she hesitate over that natural query from Jack Belllounds?

"No. He never has," she replied, presently.

"That's damn queer. You used to like him better than anybody else. You
sure hated me.... Columbine, have you outgrown that?"

"Yes, of course," she answered. "But I hardly hated you."

"Dad said you were willing to marry me. Is that so?"

Columbine dropped her head. His question, kindly put, did not affront
her, for it had been expected. But his actual presence, the meaning of
his words, stirred in her an unutterable spirit of protest. She had
already in her will consented to the demand of the old man; she was
learning now, however, that she could not force her flesh to consent to
a surrender it did not desire.

"Yes, I'm willing," she replied, bravely.